Chapter 4 - THE FORBIDDEN ALPHA
2197 Words
The ring didn’t stop burning.
Hours later, as the car climbed the winding road toward the Valenti estate, Calla could still feel the faint throb beneath the silver band. Not painful anymore — just… present. Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to her.
She pressed her thumb against it and stared out the window.
Adrian’s world rose ahead of them.
The Valenti manor was less of a house and more of a fortress carved into the hillside — a sprawling estate of stone and glass, elevated above Naples as if the entire city existed beneath its feet. Tall iron gates parted for them, guarded by men whose eyes tracked every movement with predator stillness.
“This is insane,” she muttered under her breath.
Across from her, Adrian watched her with that unnerving calm, one elbow resting casually on the leather seat, dark suit immaculate, tie loosened just enough to look dangerous instead of polite.
“What is?” he asked.
“All of this.” She gestured toward the world outside. “Your men. Your fortress. The fact that I signed a marriage contract with someone whose last name makes people whisper.”
His mouth curved at one corner. “And yet here you are.”
“Trust me,” she said dryly, “I’m not impressed. I’m cornered.”
“Sometimes corners lead to doors,” he replied. “If you know how to push.”
The way he said push made heat curl low in her belly.
Calla looked away.
The car stopped in front of the main entrance. Massive stone columns framed heavy double doors engraved with the Valenti crest.
More men waited there—some in suits, some with visible weapons, all of them deferential to the man stepping out of the car first.
Adrian.
He turned, extending a hand to help her out.
She stared at it for a heartbeat too long before taking it.
His palm was warm, his grip steady, unyielding. As she rose from the car, the world seemed to tilt around his touch—like gravity had shifted and chosen a new anchor.
“Welcome home, Calla,” he said softly.
She stiffened. “This isn’t my home.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the ring on her finger, then back to her eyes.
“It will be.”
A dozen possible responses crowded her throat. She swallowed them all and walked ahead, heels clicking sharply on the stone steps. She would not let him see how overwhelmed she was—the scale of the estate, the quiet efficiency of his men, the way everyone dipped their head as she passed, already acknowledging her as something she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.
Dona Valenti.
Inside, the manor was even more overwhelming.
High ceilings. Dark wood. Chandeliers dripping with soft golden light. Large windows framing the night sky and the distant glitter of the city. Everything smelled of polished wood, faint cologne, and something else beneath it—something wilder, edged with smoke and pine.
It clung to Adrian.
A woman approached—tall, elegant, with silver at her temples and a spine straight enough to cut glass.
“Signore,” she said, nodding to Adrian before turning to Calla. “Dona Ricci. Benvenuta. I am Belinda, the housekeeper. Your room is ready.”
“My room?” Calla echoed.
Adrian studied her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Did you expect to sleep in your office?”
She shot him a look. “I didn’t expect to sleep under the same roof as you at all.”
“Reassuring,” he said lightly.
She ignored that.
Belinda led Calla up a sweeping staircase, down a long corridor lined with old paintings and newer photographs. Calla’s mind catalogued details like evidence: emergency exits, vantage points, the number of security cameras she could spot.
It didn’t make her feel safer. It made her feel contained.
“In here,” Belinda said, opening a door.
The bedroom was generous to the point of obscene—large bed dressed in dark linens, floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony overlooking the city, a fireplace, a sitting area, an adjoining dressing room.
“This is… too much,” Calla said before she could stop herself.
Belinda gave a tiny smile. “For a Valenti bride? It is almost too little.”
Calla turned. “I’m not—yet.”
Belinda’s eyes softened. “The house knows before the papers do, cara. You will see.”
The older woman left before Calla could ask what that meant.
She walked to the balcony doors and stepped outside. The night air kissed her skin, cool and carrying the faint scent of the sea. From here, Naples glittered below like a bed of scattered jewels. The moon hung fat and bright, not yet red but waxing toward something heavier.
Her ring pulsed.
She rubbed it absently, willing the strange sensation away.
“You’re not used to silence, are you?”
Adrian’s voice came from behind her.
Calla turned to find him leaning against the balcony frame, hands in his pockets. How he entered without a sound in those expensive shoes, she had no idea.
She crossed her arms. “Silence is fine. I’m not used to cages.”
“This isn’t a cage.”
“This is a very pretty cage.”
He pushed off the frame and took a step closer. “You’re not my prisoner, Calla.”
“No?” Her laugh was soft, sharp. “I signed my name on your contract. I moved into your fortress. I’m about to stand in front of God and the mafia and pretend I chose this out of love.” She lifted her chin. “Forgive me if I’m struggling with the definition of freedom right now.”
His eyes darkened.
Not with anger. Something heavier.
“I didn’t ask you to pretend it’s love,” he said quietly.
The admission surprised her.
“What are you asking me to pretend, then?” she murmured.
He studied her for a moment, as though weighing truth against strategy.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “I’m asking you to survive.”
The words sounded almost like a confession.
Calla’s heart beat too loudly in her chest. Being this close to him was a problem. He was too solid, too warm, too intoxicating in ways she refused to acknowledge. Danger wrapped in charm. Darkness wrapped in tailored wool.
“Tomorrow you’ll meet my inner circle,” he continued. “They will see you as my future wife. You will be treated with respect.”
“And if they don’t?” she asked.
His gaze turned sharp. Lethal. “Then they won’t remain part of my circle.”
A shiver ran through her—part fear, part something darker.
“You are safe here,” he added. “Even if you don’t feel it yet.”
She wanted to throw the words back at him. Tell him safety didn’t come from dangerous men offering promises.
Instead, she said, “And what about you, Adrian?”
“What about me?”
“Am I safe with you?”
The question hung between them.
Wind tugged at a loose strand of hair at her neck. Adrian’s eyes followed the motion, then lifted slowly back to her face. The intensity there made her breath catch.
“No,” he said honestly. “You’re not.”
Her pulse tripped.
“But not for the reasons you think,” he added.
Heat unfurled low and treacherous.
He stepped closer. She could feel the warmth of his body now, the shift of his breath. The space between them shrank to a thin strip of charged air.
Something flickered in his eyes—gold, for the briefest second, caught by the moonlight.
Calla blinked.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“Nothing.” His voice was rougher now, like gravel warming in the sun.
He reached up, fingers brushing that loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was careful, almost reverent, but it seared through her anyway. Her skin tingled where his knuckles grazed her jaw.
“You keep looking at me like I’m a threat,” he murmured.
“You are a threat.”
“To whom?”
“To everything I thought I knew,” she said, words slipping out before she could restrain them.
His hand stilled.
Their faces were too close now. She could see every detail—the faint scar along his jaw, the darker ring around his irises, the way his gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.
“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely.
She swallowed. “Why?”
“Because if you don’t…” His fingers slid from her jaw down to the side of her neck, thumb resting against her racing pulse. “I might forget the careful pieces of control I have left.”
His words should have alarmed her. They did. But they also did something else. Something reckless and molten.
“Lose control how?” she asked, breath shallow.
His thumb pressed lightly against her throat, not enough to hurt—just enough to feel her life beating against it. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“You really want to know?” he asked.
“I’m a lawyer,” she whispered. “I like specifics.”
A strangled laugh escaped him. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“Then don’t make it a game.”
Something in him broke.
He moved—fast, decisive—caging her between his body and the balcony railing. One hand braced beside her head, the other still at her neck. His presence surrounded her, all raw power and heat and barely leashed hunger.
Her breath hitched. She should push him away. She didn’t.
His nose brushed the line of her cheek, inhaling slowly, like he was memorizing her.
“You smell… wrong,” he murmured against her skin. “Wrong for this world. Too pure. Too bright.”
“That’s not usually an insult.”
“It’s not one now.”
His lips hovered a breath away from her jaw. “It makes everything worse.”
“Worse?” she echoed, voice thin.
“I can feel your pulse.” His thumb stroked her throat once, slowly. “It calls to things I’ve spent years trying to cage.”
Her knees weakened.
He turned his head slightly, mouth grazing the corner of her lips, not quite a kiss, not yet. Her hands, traitorous, slid up to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt.
“Tell me to stop,” he demanded, voice rough, strained.
She should.
Instead, she whispered, “Don’t.”
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle.
His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that stole thought, reason, every carefully built wall. Heat exploded where their lips met, sharp and consuming. She tasted danger and desperation, tasted the war he fought inside himself.
She pressed closer without meaning to, fingers fisting in his shirt. His hand slid from her neck to her waist, dragging her firmly against him. Every line of his body was hard, solid, overwhelming.
The ring on her finger burned again, a sudden flare like liquid fire racing up her arm.
He broke the kiss with a ragged growl.
Calla gasped, dazed. “What—?”
Adrian’s pupils were blown wide. For a terrifying, electric second, his eyes flashed fully gold.
His grip tightened as if he were holding himself back from something far more dangerous than a kiss.
“You need to go inside,” he said, voice torn, strained.
“What’s happening to you?”
He stepped back abruptly, hands clenched at his sides, chest heaving.
“The moon,” he ground out. “It’s close. Too close.”
She glanced up. It looked normal. Bright, full, a little too large.
“You’re… not making sense.”
He laughed once, harsh. “I will. Tomorrow. Right now, I need distance, or I will do something I can’t take back.”
Her lips tingled, swollen from his kiss. “What if I don’t want distance?”
His head snapped toward her. The look in his eyes nearly knocked the air from her lungs—raw, hungry, laced with something almost feral.
“You should,” he said softly. “Because when I lose control, Calla…”
He swallowed hard, fighting something she couldn’t see.
“…I’m not just a man.”
The words scraped against her skin like prophecy.
Before she could ask what he meant, he turned and left the balcony in long, urgent strides, shoulders tense, hands flexing at his sides as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Calla stood alone under the rising moon, heart racing, lips throbbing, the ghost of his touch burning along her skin.
Not just a man.
The ring pulsed once more, like an answer she didn’t yet understand.
And somewhere deep in the house, far down the corridor, she thought she heard something that didn’t sound human.
A low, tortured growl.
- Writer
